Counting down the hours

Photo here

My mother always said she hoped that I would grow up to be a respectable timekeeper like my father. 'He was always timely', she would say, 'he never once missed an appointment or forgot a birthday.'
I loved hearing stories of my father at bedtime.
My mother would sit next to her cup of tea on my bedside table and trill out these loving tales for as long as I could keep my eyes open. Then, she would tuck me into bed, kiss my face and retire to her watchful position by my bedside.
My mother is rather old-fashioned. She's an alarm clock - bright red with the bells on top. Mother never seemed to age, aside from the odd paint chip. She was always chirpy as ever in the mornings, and imbued within me an enthusiasm for the day I'm not sure I could muster on my own.
One morning over coffee, croissants and the daily news, she noticed a classified advertisement:

WANTED
Respectable Timekeeper.
Central, Established Location.
Immediate Start.Call 03 9432 2290

She insisted I apply and shuffled me out the door after hurriedly adjusting my hands and polishing my face. Being a good son, I trammed promptly into town and charmed my way through the interview. I would start tomorrow on a great salary (for a government job).
When I arrived home, Mother had cooked my favourite dinner - lamb chops with minted peas and mashed potatoes with loads of butter. "I'm so proud of you." She said. "Your father would be pouring you a glass of brandy if he was here."
I glanced over at the photo of Father on the sideboard and imagined that he was smiling at me.